


The Creek

by passingsunlight



Category: Original Work
Genre: 'ansel elgort voice' It's A Metaphor, Gen, POV First Person, Starvation, non-graphic description of wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26448382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passingsunlight/pseuds/passingsunlight
Summary: “But... how do I make a dam? How do I find the materials?”“Well, they’re there. You just have to search for them.”





	The Creek

**Author's Note:**

> uh so this is like a short story i wrote at one am last night about how focusing with adhd is like being told to dam up a creek but all you have are your two hands and it got... dark??? i guess??  
> i really just wanted somewhere to put this so it wasn't just sitting in my notes app forever  
> as i said, i knocked this out in two hours at one am so if there's like spelling and stuff wrong just lmk

I am standing in a small creek, the water rushing past me, up to my ankles. All around me, everyone else has their own little creeks. They’re pretty much all the same; shallow and narrow, with cold, fast water. We can’t see where they start or where they go but it doesn’t matter because right here is all that matters. Here, we have to build our dams.

“A dam?” I wonder.

“Yes,” someone responds. “How else will you control your creek? Your water? How else will you ensure you always have enough fish and create your garden?”

“But... how do I make a dam?” I ask. “How do I find the materials?”

“Well, they’re there,” someone else says. “You just have to search for them.”

I look around and other people’s creeks have bushes and shrubs and small trees lining their shores; grasses and mud and stones and they’re gathering them up to build in their creek, creating the structure that will let them control the flow of the water, control the rush.

I look down. My creek bed is flat rock, some small cracks webbing through. My shores are sandy; no trees; no shrubs; no bushes or mud or grass or stones. 

“I don’t... I don’t have any materials,” I call. “There’s nothing here!”

“Yes there is!” Another person responds. “You just have to look!”

I crouch down and run my hands through the sand lining the water. It quickly gives way to smooth, hard rock. Still no bushes, or mud. Nothing.

“No, I don’t have anything! There isn’t anything here, what am I supposed to do?” I ask desperately.

“Stop complaining! Everyone has the materials! Just start building your dam! You’re falling behind!” I hear scattered voices saying.

I try to scoop some of the sand into the water to settle it at the bottom of my creek. As soon at it touches the surface it washes away downstream, leaving behind exposed rock on the shore. Frustrated, I pick up a handful and stand with my arm out, the sand slipping through my fingers and blowing away.

“Can’t you _see_!” I yell. “I have  _ sand _ . Sand and rock and that’s it! No stones! No mud! No bushes or branches or shrubs! I can’t build a dam and I don’t know what to  _ do _ !”

“You’re lying!” Someone cries back. “Of course you have all the materials! Everyone. Has. All. The. Materials. Quit trying to get out of building and just. Work.  _ Harder _ .”

I try. I scoop handful after handful of sand into my creek, hoping, pleading, that it will settle at the bottom and begin to build up, until all that’s left is bare stone, dully reflecting the sunlight. I begin to work at the stone, pulling at the cracks, beating at the ground, trying to break off rocks to form my structure, until my nails are cracked and missing, my fingertips and knuckles scraped and bleeding.

“Please,” I beg. “Please help me. I’ve tried and tried and tried. I’ve worked and worked and nothing is working. I don’t have the materials, I just need some help,  _ please _ .”

I receive looks of disdain and contempt, frustration and anger, and worst of all, pity.

“If you get everything handed to you,” they condescend, “how will you ever learn to do anything for yourself?” 

They have finished their dams, or are almost finished, and are beginning to build tools to catch the fish accumulating in their new ponds, tools to create gardens of their nearby vegetation, tools to create homes for themselves on their grassy, fertile shores. 

“This is for your own good, you know,” they say. “You have to know how to be self sufficient.”

“But I don’t need everything,” I try to reason. “Please, just the materials. I can build it on my own, I just need to be able to  _ start _ .”

They turn away, one by one, returning to their own constructions.

Desperate, I turn back to my empty, barren creek and plunge my hands in, lining them up sideways, palm to fingertip to try to slow as much flow as possible. The water stings and cools the wounds on my hands, and soon I can’t feel them at all. But there I stay.

Around me, everyone moves on; their ponds thriving, themselves thriving, moving between their ponds and others as visitors. None of them coming to me. 

They begin to specialize the fish living in their pond, growing them large and fat and meaty; specialize the vegetation in their gardens, turning them to vastly different shapes and sizes and colors, smelling sweet and sour and salty and spicy, as they cook them in their houses that become larger and grander as the time passes. 

And still I crouch here, in my creek, with my hands in the water, palm to fingertip, eating any of the quick silverfish I can catch for long enough to bring to my mouth. Sometimes discarded or forgotten produce will come close enough for me to reach and I try to savor its flavor for as long as I can, but usually it’s gone the second it hits my tongue. 

It’s not enough. I know it’s not enough. It’s been a long time since the skin on my hands was smooth, the water long since rubbed it wrinkled and frozen and raw, but I can still see the thinness of my fingers, my wrists; I can feel the looseness in my clothes and how unsteady I am when the wind is strong. My back aches from being bent over so long but I don’t remember how else to be.

I can still hear them talking sometimes, about me.

_ Ugh, why didn’t she just make her dam? _

_ Such a tragedy, but that’s what you get when you insist on doing everything the hard way. _

_ How much attention does she think she even needs or gets, doing this stunt; she should’ve just worked harder, like the  _ rest of us _. _

_ Do you think I’m doing this because I want to?? _ I want to scream.  _ I begged you, BEGGED you, to help me. I didn’t have your materials, I didn’t have any trees or bushes or shrubs or grass or stones, only loose sand and smooth rock. _

_ AND I DID THE BEST I COULD. I did the best that I could and I have worked harder every day than you could ever imagine.  _

_ All I asked for was what everyone else already had. _

_ All I wanted was a chance to  _ start _. _

It’s nearing the end, I can feel it. I can feel the winds today that are stronger than ever before. I can feel myself slip on the smooth rock under me. I can feel myself fall, land, and I don’t have the strength to get back up. 

I can feel the water slowly pool up in front of me, as it some of it escapes through the gap between my side and the bottom.

I can feel the small fish hit my barrier and begin to swim around and as everything goes dark I realize

_ I did it. _

_ Fuck you. _


End file.
